


Old Friends

by muzzleofbees



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen, Pre-Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muzzleofbees/pseuds/muzzleofbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Macca!” A short, sharp whistle followed by the tippy-tap sound of pebbles on the window pulled Paul from sleep. “Macca, wake up!” </p>
<p>Paul rolled out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor and hurried to fling open the shutter before John could throw more rocks at the glass. “Lennon! What are you doing, you wanker?” </p>
<p>“Get your ass out of bed.” </p>
<p>“It’s cold.” </p>
<p>“Put on your jumper!” </p>
<p>“It’s late, John. You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”</p>
<p>“Get down here or I’m going to start singing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labellerose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellerose/gifts).



“Macca!” A short, sharp whistle followed by the tippy-tap sound of pebbles on the window pulled Paul from sleep. “Macca, wake up!” 

Paul rolled out of bed, wincing as his feet hit the cold floor and hurried to fling open the shutter before John could throw more rocks at the glass. “Lennon! What are you doing, you wanker?” 

“Get your ass out of bed.” 

“It’s cold.” 

“Put on your jumper!” 

“It’s late, John. You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

“Get down here or I’m going to start singing.” 

It wasn’t an idle threat and Paul knew it. Muttering under his breath, he pulled on his slacks and jumper, slipping his bare feet into tattered shoes. He needed a new pair, but he kept forgetting to ask and his dad never noticed things like that. After an entire lifetime of having a woman keep an eye on such details, they tended to escape his notice. When it got too cold, Paul would ask for a few pence to take care of it. 

Paul stuck his head out the window. “Meet me round back.” 

“You’ve got one minute,” John warned. 

Paul didn’t really care if John woke up the whole neighborhood, but it wouldn’t do to wake up Jim McCartney. What began as mild irritation at the older boy turned into full disapproval that Jim couldn’t quite conceal. He hadn’t quite banned Paul from spending time with his bandmate, but he’d certainly box Paul’s ears if he caught his eldest sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night. 

“Well, sod him. I’m sixteen now, so I guess I can go out if I want to.” Hearing his own brave words gave him the push he needed to grab his guitar and fly down the stairs. John was waiting for him in the garden, his guitar in its familiar spot over his shoulder, his pompadour reaching new heights of audacity, his face alight with the smile that always, without exception, meant trouble. Paul felt a lick of delicious excitement in the pit of his stomach that he masked with a casual, “What’s all this then?” 

“You want to play, don’t you?” 

“Where?” 

“That fella I know, Danny, said that they’ve got an open set tonight at the Casbah. Reckoned we could do a number or two.” 

“We?” 

“You and me.” 

Paul nearly asked about the rest of the band but bit back the question, swallowing it down with his excitement. He liked the other chaps well enough, but they were John’s mates, not his. They were in the way more often than not. Good chaps, but the band hung on John’s talent and none of their own skills. Without John, there wouldn’t be a band, or even a pretense of one. More than once, Paul had considered bringing up that fact, but who ever heard of two blokes on guitar without even somebody playing bass? Two blokes did not a skiffle band make, but John was intensely protective of his band, even if he could be indifferent—or even cruel—to his mates, so Paul had resigned himself to playing with the rest of the Quarrymen. It made him treasure his alone time with John, made him fiercely jealous of every free second he had with his mate. 

John whistled tunelessly under his breath and produced two fags from his pocket. He lit them both and handed one to Paul. Jim didn’t like it when Paul smoked and he felt a twinge of guilt quickly smothered by the now-familiar sensation of smoke filling his lungs. He took another drag and started to whistle along with John. Within seconds the meandering sound began to take shape, a song in two parts that neither of them had heard before. 

That was how it was from the first night they played together. It didn’t matter if they had guitars or not, didn’t matter if they were alone or surrounded by people, they didn’t even need to talk about it. When they were together, the music sprang to life, moving through them and around them like the wind. The tune they were whistling came to a natural end and John said, “Should write that down.” 

“I’ll remember it.”

John grinned and tossed his butt. “Know you will. By tomorrow night, you’ll have it all written down with words and a bridge.” 

Something about his tone made Paul’s face warm. John was teasing, but he was serious too and there was a hint of admiration beneath his words. “He’s never serious,” Jim had flung out in one of their countless fights, as though that was the greatest accusation one could make. And to the untrained eye, John Lennon was a clown. A jokester. A goof who would never amount to anything. But he knew more than most adults ever learned in their whole lives and approval from him meant everything to Paul. To think he could impress John was almost too much to fathom. 

They walked in silence for some time, their guitars bumping against their shoulders, their elbows sometimes jostling. John always walked too close. The McCartney family home was not known for its displays of affection and Paul could go weeks, months, without touching another human being. Until he met John and that took some getting used to. John had little understanding and even less use for the concept of personal space. He liked to stand toe to toe, get as close as he could until he knew he was making you uncomfortable, dare you to be the first one to back down. 

Paul quite liked it so he never backed down. John likely took it as a sign that the younger boy couldn’t be intimidated by the likes of him, but it simply never occurred to Paul that he should be intimidated. He wanted to be close to John, felt drawn to John in a way that he couldn’t begin to understand, and so when their elbows jostled and their feet tangled and John slugged him in the shoulder with a bit too much force, Paul just felt comforted by the reality of his presence. 

“We don’t have to go to the Casbah, you know.” 

“What you thinking?” 

“We write that song.” 

“We can do that after.” 

“Kinda want to take care of it now. Come on.” 

He took Paul’s hand in a gesture that wasn’t the least self-conscious and ran towards the bus stop, only releasing him long enough to scamper to the top of the shelter. Paul followed without question, climbing behind him, ducking his head against the wind’s sudden bite. Fortunately the wind calmed down before the bus arrived, and they swung themselves up to the roof before the bus pulled away from the stop. 

“Whistle it for me again.” 

John didn’t have the same memory of tunes and lyrics that Paul did. He had a feeling for them. An affinity for music that Paul couldn’t quite understand, but he never remembered the way Paul did. Like a blind man moving through a familiar house, he found his way quite well even if he couldn’t state precisely where the table stood or the stairs were. Paul did as he was bid, whistling loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the bus and the howling of wind through their ears. 

“ _I send you flowers but you don’t care. You never seem to see me standing there. I often wonder what you’re thinking of. I hope it’s me and love._ ” 

Paul grinned, his lips starting to chap. “I like it.” 

John’s grin matched his. “Keep going.” 

Paul balanced himself carefully and pulled the guitar around to the front and replicated the tune they’d whistled. It sounded like John already had the lyrics worked out, or at least knew what he wanted, and so Paul was free to do what he wished with the guitar. The tinny, slightly off-tune chords were dimmed by the wind, but still easy enough to hear through the silent city streets. 

“ _When I see you every day I say hello little girl…when I see you passing by I cry hello little girl…_ ” 

It didn’t matter if they were in Aunt Mimi’s parlour or Jim McCartney’s yard or the back of the Casbah or on top of a bus. Paul heard nothing but John’s voice, and John followed Paul’s lead wherever the music took him. 

“He’s a scoundrel,” Jim had said over a tense supper only the night before. “He’ll be lucky if he gets a job on the docks. Probably he will be in prison before he’s twenty.” _And you’re better than that_. Jim hadn’t said it in so many words, but he said it with his eyes, with the pleading note in his voice. What dark future he foretold for his eldest son, Paul didn’t know. For himself, he saw nothing but bright lights and pretty girls. He wasn’t going to spend his whole life in Liverpool. Not when he and John were meant for bigger, better things. 

They didn’t rid themselves of the bus until the first rays of sunlight were visible through the smoke and fog of the city. They had a complete song under their belts and the beginnings of four more. Paul’s feet were dragging a bit but he didn’t feel tired. His cheeks were red and chapped, his fingers stiff from the cold, but his eyes were bright and he fancied after a cup of tea he would keep working a bit more. He wanted to invite John in to join him, but it was already going to be difficult enough to sneak in under Jim’s nose, and he didn’t want to start another fight. 

“Come around for tea today,” John said. 

He smiled wide, unable to keep his elation entirely at bay. “Okay.” 

“Maybe we’ll get to the Casbah tonight with the rest of the lads.” 

“My dad…” 

“Disapproves?" 

"He doesn't like me to be out till all hours playing in a rock and roll band, you know." 

"Paulie, you’re gonna choose me, sooner or later.” 

“I know, John. But I got to give the old man a chance to get used to the idea.” 

John smiled then turned and was gone, like he didn’t have a care in the world, least of all whether or not Paul would choose him. Paul watched him go until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. A small, strange ache settled in his chest, just below his heart. He knew that pain well, would live with it for the rest of the day until he went around to John’s for tea. Would live with it for the rest of his life. An emptiness, a piece of him gone with that peculiar lad who had an entire universe inside of him. 

He’d give his father the chance to get used to the idea but Jim didn’t understand, likely never would. There was music and there was John and Paul didn’t have an ambition for anything else.


End file.
